


What Shines Through

by l_cloudy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Sugar Daddy, mentions of abuse, warnings will be inside when needed, y'all can expect lots of filth and angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8731681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: “Keep that," Graves says. He closes the boy’s fingers around the silver dollar in his palm, feels him tremble slightly at the touch. “Get yourself something nice.”Or: the Sugar Daddy AU this ship deserves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [叫他照亮我/What Shines Through](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8796841) by [LiKan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiKan/pseuds/LiKan)



> Hey lovelies! I'll be quick:
> 
> This is a Credence/Original!Graves canon AU that starts off about five months before the film, and loosely follow the same events.
> 
> Graves in this story is not Grindelwald but he's not a saint either, and the 'Choose Not To Warn' is to cover all possible issues that may arise in the case of a relationship between a severly traumatized young man and a much more powerful older man. Should additional warnings be needed, you'll find them before each chapters.

For as long as he’d known Tina Goldstein she’d been a fierce young woman, bright-eyed and resolute, never still. Now she was slumping, defeated, eyes rimmed red and knuckles white as she seemed to be grasping her wand with all the strength she had left.

“Tina,” he said, slowly. “You know how it is. I can’t keep you on.”

“That woman’s awful,” she said, with an ager he’d rarely heard in her voice. “Just awful, sir, I couldn’t just stand there, someone’s got to stop her…”

“Of course she’s awful,” Graves cut her off, impatient. “She wants to kill all witches and wizards, doesn’t she? Burn us on the stake? But I expect that my Aurors have the self-restraint not to snap in the middle of the street like some No-Maj, and the brains not to get caught.”

Really, sometimes Graves regretted his own restrain, or whatever of his qualities is that made him seem more righteous than he could ever be. Had the silly girl approached him with her intentions about that No-Maj preacher, he could have arranged something. He could have the woman delivered to some secluded place, to let Goldstein get rid of her baser urges, and then Obliviate her like it never happened – but it was too late for that. He had a professional reputation to maintain.

“Tell you what, Tina,” he went on. “If you can manage six months of good behavior – no insubordinations, no mistakes, no Second Salemers – I’ll see about having you reinstated. Only six months. Think you can do that?”

Goldstein nodded, imperceptibly, and for a moment Graves thought that was all there was going to be. But then Tina had to run her mouth, just as always, and that was when it all began.

“She beats her son,” she said, barely a whisper, making Graves frown.

“Pardon?” he asked, leaning in.

“The Second Salemer, she beats her son,” Goldstein repeated. “She’s vicious. All of the children, but the oldest one the most. I had to heal him the other day, he was bleeding so much…”

Graves had to hold back a sigh, not entirely surprised. “And that’s why you attacked her.” He didn’t pass judgement, no more than he already had. Goldstein nodded again.

“Mr. Graves…” she began. “Sir. Could you maybe go to him… and see if he’s okay? Please?”

He shouldn’t go. He really should not. It was not concern of his, and he had better things to do with his time. But there was something in Tina’s eyes that sparkled his curiosity, made him want to see with his own eyes this boy she seemed so concerned for.

“I might,” he said. “Six months, Tina. Don’t get yourself in trouble again.”

She scuttled along then, gratefully, leaving Graves with a task he didn’t particularly want to put himself to. But he caught himself during the day thinking about it – twirling his wand in his fingers with the familiar gestures of a Disillusionment charm, rereading Goldstein’s reports on the Second Salemers once or twice during lunch – and in the end he found himself deciding that it would be better for his peace of mind if he just went along with it. He could have a look at the kid, see if he was walking on his own two feet, get a measure of what all the fuss was about.

And then he could forget about it, and go on with his life.

It was a solid plan, Graves thought, and simple. Just once, just to see.

In the end, he only cast a subtle Notice-Me-Not charm on himself, just to make sure he wouldn’t be singled out nor remembered, before he walked out in search of the preacher and her son. He didn’t bother Disillusioning himself – it wasn’t worth the hassle these days, not for anything but an official field mission.

Of late he’s been taking much less care to hide himself than he used to only two decades ago, or even ten years prior. It seemed that as No-Maj technological abilities increase so did their pride – their unwavering belief in themselves, their assurance that there could be nothing in the world they couldn’t possibly explain. As their trains grew faster and their radios more powerful, their willingness to believe in magic seemed to be decreasing by the year. It would make them that much easier to surprise them, Graves mused, should the need arise.

It was harder than it should have been to find a single meeting of nutters in New York, even knowing the location of the Salemers’ church and the area where they usually reunited. Everywhere Graves seemed to look there were groups of No-Majs talking among themselves with hushed tones and darkened faces, looking concerned.

When he found the woman, he recognized her immediately. She was shabbily dressed and unassuming, with a shrill voice that carried over the crowd and burning, intense blue eyes. At her side was a young girl, dressed in grey and with her hair tightly braided; she looked frail and sickly-pale, like a porcelain doll. The boy was nowhere to be seen – he was older, Graves had read, the first child the Barebone woman ever took in.

All of this he knew – the boy’s name and age, his tasks within the organization and the color of his hair, but he wasn’t expecting the… _shock_ he felt when he first set eyes on him. The kid was looking straight at him, _seeing_ him, and Graves cursed himself silently for the slip. He hadn’t meant to let the spell lower. Maybe there was something about the boy that distracted him, his sad air and curved shoulders, the way he was standing skittishly at the edge of the crowd, as if wanting to run away.

Still, the boy seemed to be alive and well. Graves had seen what he needed to see and he could leave now, but in the end he did not and didn’t know why. He waited in silence, looking at the boy looking at him – the only one who does, the only pair of eyes that found him among the crowd – not quite able to tear his gaze away. And even when the assembly was dismissed and Graves told himself that he really ought to leave now – back to the office, perhaps, or home in time for the first early dinner of the month – even then he remained where he was, observing intently as the boy and the girl made their way around the departing crowd, answering questions and giving out leaflets.

It was the kid who approached him, eventually, as Graves had expected he would; the girl didn’t seem to have seen him at all. Silently, he handed Graves a piece of paper – there were stylized drawings of flames on the first page, thick lines drawn crudely. WITCHES AMONG US, the cover screamed, all capital letters and burning hellfires. Graves smiled wryly to himself and folded the pamphlet in half, putting it in his jacket pocket.

“Hello,” he said and the boy jumped, just a little bit. “What’s your name?”

“Credence,” the boys said. “Umh–” he stopped, biting on his lip, as if trying to decide if he should go on, face flaming at his own awkwardness. This one was used to have his introductions done for him, Graves thought, noticing with amusement how the boy seemed to at least be aware that he should hold out his hand.

“Percival Graves,” he offered, grasping it, taking notice of the way the kid’s body seemed to fold over itself at his touch. “Very good sermon.”

“Uh – my mother wrote it.” The kid stared up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, and suddenly Graves didn’t want to leave, not this soon.

“I’d be interested to know more,” he said. “About you – about your Church. Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, and Credence recoiled – jumped, even, if just a little bit. He had to laugh.

“Dinner, then,” he amended, frowning slightly at the very subtle headshake he got as an answer. “Or even just dessert?” he asked, looking the kid quickly up and down, from his stained shoes to the blunt haircut. He didn’t look like he indulged in something sweet that often – or at all, really.

“Just ice cream,” he said, again, and wasn’t surprised when Credence finally nodded. A hesitant, shaking nod, cheeks flustered.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, all soft tones and gratitude.

Graves smiled, benevolent. “Of course.”

Fifteen minutes later he’d gotten young Credence to a small little pub where he’d once prevented a breach of the Statute of Secrecy a decade or so before. The place had since been turned into a soda fountain, and it was still early enough in the afternoon that only one table was occupied. Graves got them a table in the back of the room and got the boy a sundae, the biggest one they had. It came served in a plate shaped like a boat, big enough to make Credence’s eyes go a bit wide before he managed to control himself.

“I hope you like pineapple,” he said, taking notice of the way the boy held himself in the chair. He sat straight-backed but a bit stiff, moving slowly as if something within him was hurting. Graves breathed in slowly, and cursed Goldstein to himself.

“I’ve never – never had any,” Credence said, fingers playing with the edges of his towel. “It’s good. Thank you.”

He waved it away. “Go on,” Graves said. “Tell me if you like it.”

He watched the kid eat. Of all the ways he could have expected his day to end, he’d never imagined something like this. Observing a No-Maj boy, just because he can. Because the boy Credence, with his ill-fitting clothes and ridiculous leaflets, _saw_ him when he should have not. Because he was interesting, and he was so plainly suffering – and Graves had been so, so bored lately.

As he considered what to say, the boy was the one to breach the topics first. He stared at Graves from under his long lashes and swallowed around the spoon in his mouth, savoring the taste with a gleam on his face that looked almost close to ecstasy. And then he leaned in.

“Are you… are you a friend of Miss Tina’s, sir?” he asked, hesitant and so damn smug at the same time, and Graves had to exercise all of his considerable self-control not to look half as stunned as he felt. He limited himself to raising his eyebrows in polite surprise to gain some time, resting his chin on his hand as he mused to himself. He appreciated the kid’s attempt to take control of the conversation, the way he finally showed some spirit. Graves liked that. But Credence is not supposed to remember Goldstein’s name, or her face, or anything at all.

“We work together,” he said, non-committal.

And then, because he was itching to know. “How’d you figured?”

“On the way here,” Credence began. “You hardly ever looked at the cars. On the streets, I mean – most folks look when they cross. Those could run you over. But Miss Tina never looked, she said she could disapp – disappear?”

“Disapparate,” Graves said, cocking his head and wishing Goldstein was around so he could yell at her some more. “You’re observant.”

“There were other things, the way you… acted, at the assembly, and…” his voice lowered, and he instinctively looked around to see if anyone around might be listening. “So are you a – you know…”

“A wizard,” he said, just to see the way the kid’s mouth twisted just so. “Yes.” He took out the pamphlet Credence handed him earlier just for good measure, unfolded it and made a show of turning the pages one by one, slowly.

“As I told you,” he told Credence. “Good sermon. Obnoxious at times, grossly inaccurate in others, but never boring.”

Credence looked a great deal more nervous of a sudden. “Sir, are you… you aren’t going to do magic on my mother, right?” he almost whispered. “Not like –?”

“You mean, not like Tina did?” Graves asked. “That’s forbidden to us. She got in trouble for that, you should know, but she asked me to come and see if you were doing well.”

“I’m good,” the boy said, but his jaw tightened instinctively, and Graves had to look away. “I’m good. Really.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said. “Why don’t you finish your sundae, and tell me what happened when Tina left? Someone was supposed to have come for you.”

“For my memories,” Credence said, barely loud enough to be heard.

This was…

How did he _know_ , Graves wondered. Someone had indeed come; he’d signed off the order himself. A three-witches Obliviator team, made up of some of his best field agents. And yet here they were, Graves and a No-Maj kid who clearly remembered everything, and he was finding himself rapidly growing puzzled as the kid sat in front of him kept talking about Apparition like he’d never found himself on the wrong end of a wand. It would be frustrating, if Graves weren’t so intrigued already.

“Eat that up, Credence,” he said. It was the first time he said the boy’s name out loud, let it roll off his tongue. It was a cumbersome name for a No-Maj; weighty. He found that he liked it.

“That’s melting, come on,” he went on. “Did Tina tell you someone would come for your memories? Did she tell you anything about how our community is like?”

Credence had set up to scooping up the last of his ice cream and sliced fruit with renewed eagerness, as if he’d just been waiting to be told. He looked up and swallowed, pale throat working, then shook his head.

“My mother says… she says witches take away your memories. I’m sorry,” he adds, quickly. “Uh, Mister Graves. That’s just what she’s always said, since I was little. And well , the day after Miss Tina… Ma didn’t remember anything. And neither did the others, the kids, and some of them saw it. They all heard about it, and now they forgot.”

“But you remember.”

The boy looked away, eyes darting nervously. “I figured that it was just me. Because, uh,  because Miss Tina liked me, I suppose? And she… well, she knew I wouldn’t want to forget. Not ever.”

Graves didn’t say anything at that – he couldn’t, not really. There was nothing there to say; nothing to do but stare and take another long look at the kid, who was slouching in his padded chair, every inch of him resembling a kicked dog. Then he sighed to himself and stood up abruptly, so fast that Credence almost jumped.

“I might come ‘round some other time,” he said. Some other time, but not now. He needed to walk out, needed some fresh air and to sort out his thoughts. “Like I did today. Unless you’d mind?”

“Oh, no sir,” the kid said, far too quickly. “Not at all.”

Graves nodded, slowly. “Good.” He fished inside his pockets until his fingers closed around a dollar coin, cold and smooth. “There. On me. I’ll let Tina know you’re alright.”

“That’s too much,” Credence said, looking at the coin. “I mean, if you haven’t any dimes.. I can pay…”

“It’s fine,” Graves said, “Keep that.” He closed the boy’s fingers around the silver dollar in his palm, felt  him tremble slightly at the touch.

“Get yourself something nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, criticism is very much welcome. I'm still figuring out the details of this amd I'm not quite sure I have got the hang on the characters yet, so suggestions of any kind are very much loved and cherished - either here or on [tumblr](http://www.jonstarks.tumblr.com), where you can find me weeping over Colin Farrell's face daily.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Graves went home. He walked the whole way, one repetitive step after the other, but he found himself welcoming the monotony. It gave him time to think.

He would see the boy – Credence – again. He would see the boy not to Obliviate him, as he should, this time for good; but rather to talk to him, to ask him questions and offer answers of his own. _Talking_ to a No-Maj – the mere idea felt alien to him, so bizarre and wrong. He’d had some experience dealing with non-magical informants, occasionally, as a junior Auror, but this was different. There was no urgency now, no real reason to do any of this besides the fact that he wanted to.

He let himself into his apartment, still somewhat dazed. Where it anyone else, Graves knew he wouldn’t stand for it. He would personally doubt the character of anyone he’d find consorting with the non-magicals, anyone selfish enough to put their own whims before the safety of the entire Wizarding community, but this wasn’t –

This was _different_ , Graves told himself.

 _He_ was different, certainly not the same thing as some random wizard off the streets. He could be careful – he would be careful – and, besides, he still meant to Obliviate the kid once he was done with him. In a month or two perhaps, he decided, or later in the summer. Graves figured that after all his years of service, he’d finally earned the right to do as he pleased every once in a while.

He made himself dinner and allowed himself one solitary glass of bourbon and a good book before going to bed, no longer as nervous. He woke up feeling refreshed and in a much better mood, and walked into his office whistling.

“Morning, Francis,” he greeted his secretary. “Get me Jiang, will you?”

He skimmed through his copy of _The Wizarding Times_ as he waited, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the mahogany surface of his desk. He straightened himself up when he heard a knock at the door, charming it open with a wave of his hand and letting his visitor inside.

Sarah Jiang, the Head Obliviator, was a slight, angular woman. She had been a highly-respected operative when Graves had still been in school, and occasionally acted as though that gave her the right to ignore the fact that he was the one heading Magical Law Enforcement now, and she went were he he told her – whether she liked it or not. And if Graves took a bit too much pleasure in occasionally summoning her to his office… well, that was only fair. After all, Jiang herself had never bothered keeping her opinion of him a secret.

“Sarah,” Graves said as she came in. “Please have a seat. Do you happen to have a detailed report from the Mass Obliviation at that No-Maj church last Thursday?”

She frowned. “Goldstein’s mess? Verdon wrote that report. I sent in Friday morning.”

“Oh, I read that,” he said. “Half a dozen times, actually. It wasn’t very detailed, was it?”

Jiang bristled, as he’d known she would, at the perceived accusation of carelessness toward a hand-picked member of her personal team. “It was a mission report, sir,” she said, black eyes narrowing. “Same as always. Or were you expecting a fifteen-inches essay on the seventeen combinations of the Obliviation Spell?”

“Sarah,” Graves began, slowly. He’d always made a point of using the first names of everyone who worked under him – which meant all of MACUSA, pretty much, except for the career politicians and the other department heads. He’d found it helpful in fostering a sense of familiarity and good working relationships, usually; and, in the case of someone like Jiang, it was also a helpful reminder of how things stood.

“Sarah,” he said again, looking down at the newspaper on his desk. A moving picture of Picquery stared back at him. “I’ve been meaning to close this case for good. Goldstein’s been reassigned to Wand Permits, the No-Majs are none the wiser, and all I want is to shove all these documents into a drawer in Archives and forget last week ever happened. But before I do that I need to know for sure that there isn’t some overly-paranoid bigoted mad woman walking around with holes in her memory she can’t explain away. I don’t think I’m being irrational here, am I?”

When he looked up he found Jiang giving him a less than impressed gaze, arms crossed over her chest. “Of course,” she said. “Do you need a course in spellcasting theory, or will a practical demonstration suffice?”

Graves managed to contain his sense of triumph at Jiang’s predictable reaction, but just barely. “Please enlighten me,” he said instead. “The report said you removed the No-Majs’s memories with an area-based spell, rather than localized, and didn’t implant any false memories.”

That made sense, of course. Replacing that many memories – the preacher, her adopted children, and the few dozen orphans she seemed to keep around – would have been a near impossible task even for  a much bigger team. But he couldn’t understand how Credence could have escaped the spell. He’d been in the church, same as the others.  

“How many hours did you remove from the memories?” he asked.

“The whole day,” Jiang said. “But we didn’t remove it – we just smudged it.”

 _That_ hadn’t been on the report. It wasn’t surprising – agents weren’t required to list every single spell used in a routine mission, so usually they didn’t – but in this case he needs to know more. Graves leaned in.

“What did you smudge it with?” Smudging a memory meant mashing two – or more – moments together, creating the illusion that something had happened when it’d just been put together by assembling pieces of other memories. The No-Majs would never know unless they all confronted their new memories  down to the last details, and even then they would have no way to tell for certain that their memories had been tampered with.

“Just the rest of the week,” Jiang said. “And the three previous Thursdays, in case they had a weekly routine. But we mostly set up the directional spells to smudge the memories let the magic take care of it.” She pursed her lips. “You can’t singularly create that many memories for so many people, of course. Sir. I thought you’d know.”

“Maybe I’m just enjoying having you explaining it to me,” Graves said. “What kind of directional spells did you use?”

“No-Maj repellents, mostly,” Jiang said, slowly, as if she were talking to a child. She looked annoyed at his level of questioning, probably assuming he was deliberately bringing up minor details to annoy her.

_Good_

That explained Credence, he decided. The repellents charm would have guided the Obliviation spell to erase all trace of magic in the No-Majs’ memories, leaving the rest intact. Their minds would automatically reconstruct what they could not remember, pulling pieces from other days and experiences. But the No-Maj Repellent charm hadn’t seem to work on Credence the previous day – he’d been able to see Graves staring at him, when nobody else had – and so it made sense that it wouldn’t work during the Obliviation as well. Now, if he could only figure out why…

“Graves?” he was brought back to the present by Jiang’s voice, and glanced up to see her looking quite put out. “Is that all, _si_ r?” she asked, in a tone that made it clear how much she though he was wasting her time.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes that’d be all. You won’t need to resend the report, after all. Thank you for your time.”

And Jiang left, without a doubt cursing his name under her breath and resenting the petty abuse of power from a superior she couldn’t stand. She would never look any deeper, never realizing that Graves might have other reasons for wanting to know how that memory spell had been executed, down to the very last detail.

He put the boy off his mind after that, burying himself in work. His morning meeting with some representatives from the South ended up running until well after lunchtime, and he barely had time to eat something when he was informed that a seemingly random house robbery upstate may have been linked to a group they’d been tracking for some time.

“The ones selling those counterfeit Pepper Up Potions, right?” he asked Francis, massaging his temples with both hands. It was five in the afternoon, and the Salemers’ sermon was about to start – and so was his meeting for the budget proposal, and Picquery would probably send him some memo or another any minute now.

“Get Frost on that,” Graves said. “Have him get a sample of those tampered potions, if he can, and get me Robert in my office with the budget papers.”

He ended up leaving Woolworth well after sunset, tired and irritable, but somewhat satisfied. It started to rain as he Disapparated home, light summery drops falling like warm pinpricks, and Graves shivered.

With the new light the morning dawned grey and wet. There was a sort of mugginess in the air that left behind a sticky heat, a heaviness that didn’t go away no matter how many times he charmed his handkerchief to fan at his face and neck, making it hard to breathe.

He had gotten enough done the previous day that he could afford to take one or two hours off to seek out Credence somewhere around mid-afternoon, feeling only a vague sense of unease about the whole thing. It was two days exactly since the first time he’d seen the boy when Graves found himself a couple blocks off St. Patrick’s, listening to the Barebone woman go on about how much she despised all cursed magic users. It was boring and repetitive and made it awfully frustrating to just stand there doing nothing – the experience left Graves with a renewed sense of appreciation for Goldstein, who was on the case for four weeks straight before attacking the woman. By the sounds of things, Graves himself isn’t sure he can take a week of this, let alone a month.

He found Credence soon enough; standing tall in his threadbare suit with the same graceless haircut Graves remembered. The kid caught sight of him and winced, startled, as if he’d never expected to see Graves again – as if, perhaps, he’d thought he’d imagined the whole thing. It was flattering, to an extent, even though if the kid’s reaction was making it almost obvious that there was something going on.

Towards the end of the sermon he strode away purposefully, knowing he’d be noticed, and settled himself against the wall on a street corner. Credence came to him not much later, his mother and a third of his pamphlets gone, and Graves was briefly struck by the memory of standing at a street corner much like this one, not long ago, waiting for another young man to approach him. He shook his head to clear off the thought. It had been night then, and the circumstances as far removed from the present as they could possibly be.

“Hello, Credence,” Graves called out, letting his lips curl into a smile.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence replied, inclining his head, still looking half dazed and surprised he was there at all.

“How have you been?” he asked, warmly, just to hear the kid’s startled gasp, see the hesitant roll of his shoulders.

“I,” Credence began, then stopped, so stunned at having been asked. “Sir, I…”

Graves laid an hand on his shoulder, watching his pupils go wide. “Would you like to go somewhere else?” Certainly the boy deserved the same courtesy he’d offer a prostitute he picked up at the docks, at the very least.  “It’s a bit stifling out here.”

“I have to be back in two hours,” Credence said, slowly, looking down at his feet. Not a denial then. He’d take it.

“That’s plenty of time,” he said. “Will you let me take you to dinner this time?”

“I’m not supposed to,” the boy said, still not meeting his eyes, clutching his leaflets as if a burst of wind would carry them off any minute. “But…”

Graves tightened the hand still on Credence’s shoulder, just a bit. The cloth of the suit jacket felt cheap and thin under his fingers. “I won’t tell,” he said. “Let me do this one thing for you.”

“Alright,” Credence breathed out, softly. “Alright.”

“Excellent,” Graves said, taking a step back. The two of them were probably of an height, he estimated – Credence may even be slightly taller – but it was hard to tell with the way the boy stood so hunched over every time he came closer. Graves stared down at him as he ran his hand soothingly over one slight arm, as if he were dealing with a scared kneazle. “I know a place. It’s not far.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence asked, later, as they walked. “Are you sure they’d let me in?”

Graves half turned to look at the kid from over his shoulder, but didn’t stop. “Of course,” he said. “They won’t even notice anything that may be different with you.”

“Because of… of _magic_?” He whispered the word, excited and fearful at the same time, and Graves had never expected that any young man raised by the Barebone woman could be so – so _responsive_ . There must be so much repressed need swirling under that surface; he must be aching with it.

“Yes, Credence,” he said, turning to look him fully in the face. “Because of magic.”

Graves took him in: pale, black eyes burning bright. _He covets_ , Graves thought, even as he found himself staring at the boy with something akin to greed of his own. He wondered if Credence was going to take his sacred book out when he got back home, later tonight, kneel on a hard floor and beg his god to rid him of the desire for something so wicked.

“One can do many useful things with magic, of course,” Graves continued casually, as if he’d completely missed the way the boy was hanging off his every word. “I’d like to do what I can to help you. if you’d like.”

“My Ma… Ma says all magic is evil,” Credence said, and the words fell flat between them – one last useless defense.

Unconcerned, Graves put one hand on the boy’s back, right over his hip. “We’re here,” he said, gesturing towards the restaurant’s entrance right across the street. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

Once inside the waiting staff didn’t pay any mind to Credence’s state of dress, just as promised, and they were shown without troubles to a table in the corner, far away from the windows. Not that Graves thought they would be seen – he’d chosen a No-Maj establishment for a reason – but it never hurt to be too careful.

“The roasted salmon is really good,” he told Credence. “Unless you’d prefer something else?” He would rather not let the boy have a look at the menu himself if he could help it – a glimpses at the prices list might be all it took to send him into a fit of puritanical shyness all over again.

“It’s fine, Mr. Graves,” Credence said. “I’ve never – we usually eat soup at home.”

“Doesn’t your mother run some sort of soup kitchen?” Graves asked. “For all those children?”

The boy nodded. “It is more blessed to give than to receive, Ma says. Those children… they would be on the streets otherwise.”

Graves didn’t quite know what to reply to that, so he slowly unfolded the table linen and laid it over his thighs, smoothing out the creases. The waiter came back with their plates and he started cutting into his fish, only to catch sight of a nervous twitch on Credence’s face.

“What is it?” Graves asked, and the kid blushed a bit.

“Would you.. would you mind it if I said grace, first?”

That was curious, Graves thought. He didn’t know enough about No-Maj religions to be familiar with the practice, or to estimate how common it may be. He merely nodded his head and looked on as Credence joined his hands and muttered something under his breath, eyes fixed on his plate. When he seemed to be done, Graves picked up his cutlery again.

“You said your mother thinks all magic is evil,” he began. “But what do _you_ think, Credence?”

“My Ma…” Credence began, then paused. “She was... Miss Tina used her magic to protect me. But she hurt my mother, Mr. Graves, and that was – it was scary to watch, you know?”

Credence lowered his eyes, grasping his own napkin in a clear imitation of Graves’s gesture. He unfolded it with slow, clumsy gestures, as if he was not quite sure what he was supposed to be doing with it.

“I think that maybe,” he said. “You can do evil things with magic. But maybe good things, too?”

“That’s very insightful of you, Credence,” Graves said and the boy looked up sharply, face flushing.

“I do mean it,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t tease you like this. Tell me, did you go to school?”

If possible, the kid went even more red in the face. “No, sir. I know how to read, though,” he added, quickly. “Ma has me teaching some of the children in the mornings, so they can study the Bible.”

“That’s admirable, Credence,” he said. “I’d never have the patience to be a teacher.” That wasn’t strictly true – some part of him loved the thrill that came with helping shape a young mind – but he certainly could never teach something as repetitive and mundane as reading.

“Tell me,” he continued. “Do you do anything else? Work, or….”

“No, sir,” Credence said again. “I do jobs around the house, and help take care of the children, mostly. I used to work as a shop boy, down on Fifth Street back when we went to church over there, but then Ma and Mr. Kinney…” he trails off. “I couldn’t work there anymore, and so now I just help at home.”

He sounded apologetic, almost ashamed, and Graves poured them both some water. “That’s good, isn’t it?” he asked, making the boy blush some more as he sputtered out thanks. “Have some potatoes, they’re even better. Tell me, I saw your sister the other day – the blonde girl. Are you close?”

It turned out that they were; less so with the oldest sister, Charity, and with the middle girl least of all. Graves then asked him about his childhood, seemingly just as grey and barren, and if he remembered anything before coming to live with the woman he now calls mother. The conversation is stilted and awkward, and Graves almost stopped and let the kid have some peace – almost.

After all, he came here today for a reason – to learn more about Credence and his life, about whatever past experience may have exposed him to magic, and he had to pursue that avenue, however fruitless and painful it may turn out to be. He’d thought about the situation far too much in the last two days, especially since meeting with Jiang, and that of prolonged exposure to past magic is the only explanation that made any sense, the only way to justify Credence’s surprising resilience to No-Majs Repellent charms.

While not personally familiar with it, Graves had heard of the theories about the effect that prolonged proximity to magic had on the bodies of No-Majs. In Canada, for example, where intermarriages were tolerated if not openly endorsed, it was relatively common for young withes and wizards to have a non-magical close relative – men and women who had no magic running through their veins but were aware of its existence and, with time, become impervious to entire categories of spells targeted against those of their kind. The Canadian Auror who first told him about the phenomenon explained it away as a curious quirk of nature, some trick that made it possible for non-magical parents of young wizards and witches to be more present in their children’s lives, but some part of Graves couldn’t help but see the entire thing as an enormous security risk.

At the time, he had been very grateful that such a thing would never happen to his own community. Now he should be fearful, repulsed – but the more he looked at the timid young man sitting in front of him the more Graves found it hard to see him as any kind of threat. Rather, he felt an unwelcome outpouring of something that wasn’t quite pity, nor empathy, but something in the middle. Protectiveness, maybe, as ridiculous as the thought was.

“Thank you for answering my questions,” he said, eventually, when they’d long since finished eating and the two hours were almost up. “I don’t know much about non-magical people, obviously, and this was very interesting.”

“Really?” Credence blurted out. “I’m… I didn’t think someone like you could be interested in what I have to say, Mr. Graves.”

“I think you’re a very interesting young man, Credence,” Graves said, mostly so that he could enjoy the kid’s reaction to his words. Credence preened a bit under his eyes, almost squirmed, and some part of Graves hoped he was feeling at least half as uncomfortable as Graves himself did when he realized that yes, at some point he’d really gone and became interested in learning about No-Majs, as long as Credence was the one explaining it to him.

“Maybe,” Graves began. “Next time I could answer your questions about wizards, if you have any.”

“Really?” Credence asked again, with a sort of bashful eagerness that was delightful to watch.

“Of course,” he said. “Are you allowed to leave in the evenings? Maybe three nights from now?”

“I’m… yes,” Credence said. “Yes, I could do that.”

“Good,” Graves said. “Would you like to leave those with me?”

Credence’s eyes followed his gesture to the pile of forgotten pamphlets on a corner of the table, and he winced. “I was supposed to give all of those away,” he said, dully, as if they both didn’t know that.

“You can leave those with me,” Graves repeated. “Your mother’s not here, isn’t she? She won’t know.”

The boy shook his head. “I can’t lie,”  he said.

“Credence…”

“It’s fine, Mr. Graves,” he said, then immediately cringed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But it’s fine, really… I can tell Ma I was talking to someone about the church and lost track of time. She’ll understand. The worst she could do is send me to bed without supper, but tonight…” he looked up at Graves and smiled, a twist of his lips that was probably meant to be amusing and self-deprecating. It made Graves’s hands clench into fists.

“Alright, then,” he said, resolving to see if he could get Goldstein reinstated a bit earlier than those six months he promised. She’d always been soft-hearted, and he understood now why she reacted how she did. He understood it all too well.

“Will you still come for me?” Credence asked. “In three days?”

He looked – so disgustingly hopeful. Graves took in a breath. “Yes,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. Thank you. Just… thank you. I’m absolutely ecstatic and a bit overwhelmed by the reaction, and each single one of you is a totally awesome human potato. Also, for what it’s worth, next chapter should be out a lot sooner – I’ve had some RL stuff in the past few days, though that’s hopefully sorted out now. In the meanwhile, hit me up @[tumblr](http://www.jonstarks.tumblr.com/) to witness my descent into Colin Farrell thirst blogging, or to send me writing prompts, or whatever. Have a big virtual kiss. Y’all are great ❤ 
> 
> PS: in case anyone were wondering, there will be porn in the story. Loads of it.


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